Be My Frankenstein
by drollicpixie
Summary: A short Zoe/Kyle story - Zoe had held him, comforted him, rocked him, but never allowed him into her bed. At least she never had before. *Warning - Season 3 SPOILERS! Marked Violet/Tate as Zoe/Kyle is not yet a character option. Rated - (light) M.


A/N - Spoilers! This story contains spoilers for episode 3x01 of AHS: Coven as well as the preview for episode 3x02 and general spoilery goodness from the internets. If you want to be completely surprised please do not read.

This story is also speculation on my part after hearing some spoilers (quotes from an interview with Ryan Murphy) this morning. It is not as refined/polished as I would like, was written in a couple of hours and for my own pure amusement. I just needed to get something out and "on paper" after watching the episode (twice).

Zoe/Kyle - Rated M

Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story.. just the idea for this little fic is mine. Title is a play on the song _Feed My Frankenstein_ by Alice Cooper.

* * *

"Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it." – Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

The shuffling ended at her door. It had gone from a distant, barely audible scraping, a noise that caused her breath to catch, her pulse to thrum, to something more distinct with each passing moment.

And now she could hear him breathing. That slightly labored sound, the rattling in his chest. And there was the scratching. Never a knock. He could make a fist, curl his knuckles in, even as other skills, like speech, were slow to return. But he wouldn't. He preferred that noise. The one that made her skin break out in goosebumps, the hair on the back of her neck prickle, her blood rushing, heating in her veins.

"Come in," she hushed, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

The knob jiggled, turned left then right, before the door creaked open. The hall behind him was pitch black, her room barely any brighter at that time of night. Still, she could make out his mussed blond head as it peeked around the edge of the door and he grinned.

Zoe shifted over on her narrow bed, making room, and lifted the blankets. Kyle was wearing the gray thermal shirt she had found for him and a pair of ratty worn jeans, looking so much like the boy she had met at the fraternity party. Her heart ached.

The door closed again with a slight squeak and a thump. The boy, her boy, shambled forward, standing awkwardly beside the mattress, his knees all but touching it. "What's the matter?" she asked. Kyle said nothing, only gazed at her, dark eyes forlorn. "Come here," she nodded down at the empty space beside her.

Zoe had held him, comforted him, rocked him, but never allowed him into her bed. At least she never had before. It was too dangerous, Kyle too precious, to risk getting carried away, killing him all over again, after everything she had done to resurrect him, rehabilitate him.

But after the day she had had, they all had had, she needed the company as much as he did.

When he continued to hesitate she tried again, voice soft and tired, "Take off your clothes and get in the bed, Kyle," followed by a sigh.

Finally he nodded, bit his lip in that fucking adorable way, and reached clumsily for the fly of his jeans. Motor skills were coming back to him but fine work, things you had to fumble at with your fingers, that was still a challenge. He managed though and his proud smile at the small accomplishment made her heart thump in her chest, knocking first against her ribs, and then squeezing its way up her throat. She had wanted to save him, right a wrong. She loved him. Had that first moment she clapped eyes on him. But she hadn't wanted things to be so hard, for life to be such a difficulty for him. For Kyle to live a half-life stashed away in an attic like a dirty little secret. He was better than that, worth so much more than her still limited powers were able to provide.

"Here," she tugged his hand, pulling him down onto her bed. And with trembling fingers she divested him of his shirt.

Kyle didn't heal, not like a living being would. The stitches across his chest, his arms, his hips were red and raw and angry. But he didn't bleed, not as he shifted or moved, as he lowered himself to lie beside her. Zoe lightly traced over her and Madison's handiwork. The job had been rough and ready, lacking finesse, but it had brought her boy back to her. He hummed lightly in the back of his throat, making almost a chuffing sound, as she stroked his flesh, and his eyes slid closed.

Her fingertips danced across his torso, happily tracing patterns, as she remembered the pentagram smeared across his cold white flesh. It had been so stark in the waning candlelight. So beautiful.

Kyle's hand found its way to her waist, slipping awkwardly between the cotton of her sleep shorts and t-shirt. Her nose nudged at his cheek, lips warming him with little puffs of minty air. His grip was firm, grasping, as his fingers stretched, thumb brushing her stomach, making a rush of hot, aching want flood through her. A sound, like a gasp, slipped from her lips and the boy sharing her bed grew bolder. His palm skated over her ribs as his head turned on the pillow so that their mouths brushed softly, slightly.

Zoe had kissed him before. Light, lingering kisses where she would take his full lower lip between her teeth. Kisses on his cheek, his knuckles, his throat. But never when they were horizontal or alone or in the dark in her bed. And she should have pulled back, away, but he was so close and his eyes were like pools of pitch staring right into her soul.

His eyes burned, smoldered. They had that first night at the party as he stood talking to her, making her smile. And they did the first time they opened for her after the spell. That was how, in those tremulous moments, as his body stopped quaking and his chest began to rise and fall once more, she knew he was still in there. That he was still Kyle.

Their bodies rolled, shifted, until they were facing one another fully, and Zoe, carelessly, tossed one bare leg over his boxer covered thigh. She had never wanted a guy as much as she wanted him. Not Charlie. No one. And it struck her again how unfair it was, her power. Madison could move things with her mind, Nan could read your thoughts, fuck, even Queenie had a better power. She could kill guys with her cunt. And while that would, had, come in handy, it was way more of a curse than a blessing.

And then Kyle was kissing her again, lips rough, hands splayed across her back.

She refused to think about the former owners of said hands, arms. That they had perhaps held her friend down as she squirmed and cried. They were his now and he had tried to save Madison. That was all that mattered.

When Zoe felt it, him, hard and hot, pressed against her, hips thrusting slowly, naturally, and with a rhythm that inspired a fresh rush of lust, she drew back, greedily drawing in breath. Kyle just continued to grin, his face closing in again, following her retreat with a renewed offensive. "No," she shook her head, teeth clamping down on her lower lip, "I can't." His expression was puzzled like he was trying to tease the meaning from her words unsuccessfully. And while he could not yet speak Zoe knew he wasn't dumb, that he was as sharp as ever, when he earned his scholarship to Tulane. Though she admittedly questioned his decision to join a fraternity, to befriend shithead assholes, like the date rapists he came to the party with, died with, she knew he was a smart boy.

Kyle had not said one word since he had woken up. And at first it had unnerved her. Madison had taken to calling him Benson's Monster or just Freak. But Kyle understood everything she said, sneered at her, walked away, tugging Zoe by the hand. They had worked out ways to communicate: body language, grunts, eye movement, a smile, a frown. The two of them could converse just fine without actual speech.

But then, at that moment, Zoe really wished that he could just talk to her. Ask her what she meant, why they couldn't be together. Instead she was left with the task of explaining, which she was clearly doing a terrible job of if his oncoming frown meant anything. And then he was struggling, pulling away from her, out of her grasp, the warm embrace of her bare limbs.

"No," she told him forcefully, drawing him back against her body. "No," she repeated, looking him in the eye.

His mouth was downturned, face ashen, as he struggled to catch his breath. But his eyes were shuttered, the window to him, to Kyle, who he was deep inside, was being closed to her. With a quick gesture of his hand he waved angrily at his stiches, the crimson line along his collarbone, around his shoulder, and grunted, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction.

Zoe shook her head again, hand lifting to stroke his cheek, thumb tracing the seam of his lips. "No, Kyle," she gazed at him. "It has nothing to do with these," her fingers trailed along his chin, grazing his Adam's apple, and running along the raised flesh he had indicated to. His brows rose but he did not appear convinced. So she replaced her fingertips with her mouth, her tongue. And his head rocked back into the pillow, hand sliding along her thigh, hips moving again, rocking into her as she stifled a low moan at the feel of him.

Madison had wanted the biggest dick, scouring the body bags, the pieces, looking for the right piece of machinery, as she had put it. But Zoe had flatly refused. Kyle was intact. Kyle was perfect. "Why?" the other girl had mocked, "It's not like you can actually use it." And maybe she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't. But she knew that Kyle would want his own cock. How could she insult him by choosing someone else's? Like what they were doing wasn't sick enough, playing doctor, mad scientist, putting boy parts together like the most disturbing puzzle ever.

"Kyle, this," she groaned, lifting her leg higher, "can't happen. And not because of," her hand rested on the stitches across his torso, "but it would kill you, if we," she choked up, throat closing, eyes burning, tears threating to spill. "If we fuck, you'll die, your brain will like, explode," she managed, "and I can't, I fucking will not, lose you again."

Wetness coated her cheeks, her lips tasted like salt water, the ocean. And Kyle was wiping her face, eyes searching hers, worried.

"I've," Zoe stuttered, "killed people before," and when she dared to glance up at him again she expected to see disgust but instead she was surprised. His countenance was painted with understanding, with love, acceptance. "We can never be together, like that," she reiterated but his expression didn't change.

Finally Kyle smiled, or smirked, a sexy quirk of his lips that, when coupled with his fathomless gaze, made her melt against him. His hands were back on her, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, running along the ridges of her ribcage, dipping below the waistband of her shorts. "We," she started to warn him but fell silent when the tips of two of his fingers found her soaked her panties and pressed, nudged. With a sigh she leaned in to kiss him, let him know, with her actions, how much she wanted it, this, him.

And then he was inside of her, palm bumping her clit as his fingers worked her, twisting, bending, stroking. "Fuck," she moaned, low and deep, on an exhalation. Kyle was definitely smirking then.

Zoe rested first one hand on his shoulder, thumb running along his seam, as the other dragged across his scalp, down the back of his neck, and up again.

"Oh god, please," she whispered, riding his hand. No one had made her cum in so long and it was delicious, the feel of him.

He claimed her lips, working her harder, faster, reaching deeper, as his tongue mirrored the action of his fingers.

She came, shaking, quivering, mouth slack, soaking his hand. And then those wet fingertips slipped out of her, making Zoe clench, sigh, before she felt them sliding up and along her belly, emerging from beneath the sheets and making their way into his mouth. Kyle groaned, the taste of her on his tongue, his lips, and Zoe couldn't stop herself from tugging at his hand, kissing him, tasting herself.

But then she was crying again and those warm, rough hands were grabbing at her, rearranging her in the bed so that he could look at her face, into her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Zoe mumbled. "I am so sorry, Kyle," she shook her head, "for this, for everything. Fuck."

And then it was his turn to shake his head, which he did vehemently, pointing first to her chest, her heart, and then his own, before holding her close, clutching her to him almost desperately. As if to say, it's you and me. Or I love you.

There were no words, nothing she could say, so she let him hold her, falling asleep in his arms, and waking to the morning sun bouncing off of his blond curls as they swept across his forehead. Her index finger traced along his nose, over his top lip, tugging slightly at the bottom. Life may be filled with anguish, with bitterness, and hardship, but she had him and she would keep him as long as she possibly could. And she would do what she had to do.


End file.
